


Foolish remitter

by Rottenwords



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Feelings Realization, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Willow exists and talks but thats it, a lot of headcanons, other characters are only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rottenwords/pseuds/Rottenwords
Summary: Wilson has received a love letter! the problem is that he does not know who it's the author. While trying to figure it out, he manages to discover a few things about himself.
Relationships: Wes/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	Foolish remitter

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've published in 10 years! woo!
> 
> as I mentioned, it's mostly headcanons and oblivious gays ahoy.

It was early autumn when Wilson’s tent received a sneaky visitor in the morning. Not a person, not even a creature, but a small envelope sealed up sloppily with a bee wax stamp laying right in front of his bedroll. 

He reached for it and brought it close to his eyes, which were still adjusting to the light that entered his tent. A faint, familiar smell that he couldn’t name right at that moment clung to the paper weakly. He flipped it over, looking for anything else before he decided to open it. His eyes go as wide as his drowsy state would allow when he finds a small heart drawn on the back of it.

It was now very obvious what the letter would contain.

He opens the envelope carefully and with lazy movements. He skimps over it only catching words that give him hints of the purpose of it and sure enough, it was a love letter. 

Wilson can hardly find the energy to be surprised. He was well aware and proud of his looks and charm. The only thing surprising about it is that someone had the time for such thoughts in between the harsh weather and bizarre creatures that surrounded them. Despite his initial indifference, he ultimately decides to give the letter a respectful and patient reading instead of such a dismissive gloss over. 

It starts very apologetically, seemingly afraid of the message being too sudden or perhaps too startling for him. The remitter of this letter was already giving some signs of their personality, Wilson thought.

Then came a list of compliments. It talked about his face and some of his features like his dark eyes, his ‘elegant’ nose, and even the lips Wilson never considered as anything close to excelling. It also mentioned his hair and how the strokes of gray on it only seemed to enhance its beauty. Wilson unconsciously brushed a hand over his dark locks, a strange sensation growing inside his chest and warmth spreading on his cheeks. Everything was written in such an affectionate manner.

The next part addressed his personality. Wilson didn’t know how to feel about the use of the word ‘endearing’ to refer to his passion for science, then a small bit remarking how fun his improvised puns came by to pull him away from any annoyance he was tempted to feel. He was dragged further away from such petty thoughts as the text talked about how sweet his fatherly behavior was. Wilson wasn’t so sure if he would call himself fatherly as he thought he usually just treats kids appropriately, respectfully and even played along with them if he had the energy. Though it is true that Webber and Wurt sometimes would have a slip and call him dad, on multiple occasions even. 

The remitter then spoke about his braveness and how reliable Wilson always had been for the team, vaguely recalling an experience from last winter. They had taken mention of that last thing to sprinkle another compliment speaking of his ‘magnificent’ beard that only appeared to intensify the warmth on his cheeks. 

Wilson’s eyes darted away from the letter, a little too overwhelmed by the feelings flowing from it. Not despicable but confusing and intimate like an unprompted hug from who you thought was only an acquaintance.

It is then when he is pulled out of his reading that he acknowledges how his heartbeat had shifted so drastically, hard to believe he wished to go back to sleep just a few minutes ago and now he couldn’t even fathom laying down in tranquil. He places a hand over his chest, a futile intent to get a hold of himself. He couldn’t have foreseen how passionate the author of this text was and how susceptible Wilson was going to be to these words. Perhaps the self-isolation he had done in the past had left him weak and vulnerable against any type of deeper human interaction. 

Hesitantly, he turned his attention back to the letter, seeking closure and whatever this person could want of him with such bold words and confession. The final lines of it were instructions; requesting that in the case Wilson accepted the confession, to please come to an area well-known to everyone in the camp. a flower patch not too far away from them. He swallowed feeling the knot in his throat becoming almost painful and finally dared to look down the last line.

At the bottom of the letter, instead of a name, all it stood there was a W.

Wilson frowned, his mouth falling flat and his eyebrows furrowing completely incredulous of what was he holding between his fingers now. The author of this letter had somehow forgotten that against all odds; the name of everyone on their team started with a W.

He cursed out loud, frustrated at the untreated squeeze in his heart. He had no way to correspond or reject whoever had the braveness and foolishness to write this letter, no preparation or weapon to go face them as the author refused to name such a face. The curse was loud enough to catch the attention of a wandering Willow, who’s figure outside the tent was easily recognizable. Her being out so early in the morning was a rare sight. She went ahead and started to look for where the edge of the flap of the tent was so she could enter.

Wilson’s movements quicken with panic. He opted to hide the letter inside his blanket, begging Willow wouldn’t notice the fear in his face. She peeked inside the tent, her expression spelled “I wish to not be awake” so loud and clear.

“It’s too early for your weirdness, old man. What bit ya? ” Willow’s voice was heavy and groggy

Wilson cleared his throat before speaking, afraid of a crack that might betray his real state.

“Nothing, nothing. Just twisted my body the wrong way.” Wilson rubbed his back to emphasize his statement, a few quiet cracks happen as he did.

“Uh-huh,” Willow’s eyes went up and down on him, Wilson raised an eyebrow in response. “So, any reason why your face looks like a boiled beet?”

Wilson would hide his face if doing so wouldn’t lead to him looking even more suspicious, not to mention childish. He waved a dismissive hand.

“It was a tad too hot last night. shouldn’t have slept completely covered”

Willow cocked her head to the side. Wilson felt his heart panicking yet again. He doesn’t want to speak of this letter, much less with his personal bully, Willow.

“It’s getting cold, so I can understand the need to wrap up…”

Wilson sighed in relief, luckily for him, a sleepy Willow had no energy to be Willow. Wilson spoke now confident and unafraid of this version of her and asked why she was intruding so rudely. The sleepy brain of the arsonist had to take a couple of seconds to process the question before asking Wilson if he needed anything as she was heading out for materials far away. The man shook his head and thanked her for the offer and with that, she was off.

Wilson allowed himself to fall back onto his bedroll, taking a deep breath, he pulled out the letter he had kept hidden so fiercely. 

Who could this W be and why they didn’t think this through, he wondered.

\------ ✿ ------

Wilson was now out of his tent, sitting down as he attended his designated duty for the day. Braiding ropes was somehow easier for him than it ever was to make a garland or even a simple daisy chain. It was a repetitive and soothing task that allowed his mind to wander off, his thoughts falling onto random lines of the letter and re-reading to both let himself relish in the praise that was given so wholeheartedly and also, to try and decipher who could be the clueless author. The remitter had indicated to meet them in the mentioned flower patch in the afternoon. Wilson had translated such a statement into a deadline. He had to know, he had to know the identity of his admirer before the sun could set so he could be prepared mentally and emotionally.

The task of it became just more complicated as Wilson realized that it could easily be almost any of his fellow survivors since the letter expresses not a single clue to theorize with; apart from the writing style and the first docile lines of it, nothing betrayed a notorious part of their personality, age nor gender. Though he would admit the last thing was not something he worried about at any point. He never has cared for it in the same way the world he came from had always coaxed everyone to do. He had better things to worry about in his growing life anyway, like learning to treat chemical burns.

He was finishing one of his ropes when he heard the faint sound of Webber's laughter. Hard to miss as it was so unique to him; raspy, sprinkled with cracks here and there and yet full of glee and sweetness. He and Wendy had the job of fishing their dinner for the day and somehow Webber had found fun in such silent and slow activity. At least the kids were an easy cross off the list of suspects, Wilson thought.

He snapped his fingers. That was it! he needed to narrow it down, discard the ones who could never be and attempt to identify the author by an elimination process. 

He stood up to retrieve a pen and piece of paper from the pile they keep close for one of Wes’s communication methods and other purposes. This was now like a game for him; quickly writing down the names of all adults in the camp, frantically and a bit too much like a chicken scratch that only he could recognize as words but that didn't matter. If he and only he could interpret such an odd list that was for the better. He began to analyze.

The first name on the list was Willow. He immediately winced. Aside from the bizarre thought of it, this letter gave no hint of it being her; the clean writing, the lack of colorful language, and such sweet compliments for Wilson could never be from the arsonist. At this point, she was more of a sister to him and he is sure Willow sees him as either a brother or her preferred victim. Wilson had also noticed the way she would glance at Wigfrid with such a dazed expression.

Speaking of such themes, Ms. Wickerbottom was out of the question for sure. Such a decision based on nothing but facts as Wilson had the honor of reading some drafts of hers, romance novels included. So far not only were they captivating, but none of them contained men. It is not good to assume, but he gave himself a pass on this one. He crossed the two of them and kept going.

Wolfgang didn’t appear to have the interest or ability to write in such a sophisticated way. It was obvious that english wasn’t his first language and he still had some trouble with it but that didn’t discard him completely since assistance could have been asked.

Woodie seemed more enamored with Lucy the ax than anything else in the world. Wilson sometimes wondered if it wasn’t the ax that he was in love with but the memory of someone long gone. He pulled away from such a depressive and nosy thought and proceeded 

Wigfrid rarely breaks character and this wasn’t written like anything close to the speech of a noble nordic warrior. Wilson would bet the redhead would go out of her way to write the diaeresis above her o’s if she had done this. Despite all of this, she couldn’t be ruled out. Woodie was crossed out, but he drew a circle around Wigfrid and Wolfgang with many question marks.

Wilson hadn’t noticed Maxwell passing by until he was kicking away some of the supplies he had laid on the ground, not stopping to check on the damage. 

“Would you be more careful?” Wilson said, voice charged with annoyance. He quickly gathered the grass and finished ropes and watched the magician just stroll away.

Maxwell didn’t have the courtesy to even look back and what he had done. Wilson glared at the tall man and thanked science and whatever else that could be out there that this letter wasn’t signed with an M. He went back to his study.

Warly? His personality fits the gentleness of the letter but evidence showed that the author of this letter had been on the team at least since the last Winter and they had met Warly what he estimated to be just a couple of weeks ago. Wilson noted that besides the chef’s name and made a wobbly circle around everything.

Winona. He crossed her out immediately. The skilled mechanic had mentioned a partner she had to return to in the real world before and never showed to be hesitant about their relationship. Not to mention this writing was way too clean to be her, he had seen her sketch of blueprints around her area, it is essentially a whole other language.

The name WX78 was written down without really considering the obvious; the chip in their brain was programmed with their confusing hatred of humanity and the self-given obligation to protect the “moonling” Wormwood.

Speaking of the humanoid plant, their undeniable lack of dominance on the language completely rules them out as well. They appeared to be content with just belonging to the team anyway, having friends and a metal bodyguard was enough and had no interest or knowledge on romance. Wilson crossed them both out.

Wheeler came to mind and so did her disinterest in relationships. She once said and Wilson quotes “I’d prefer a sidekick”. Some of their peers laughed at the statement as it had been a 'marriage is prison' joke, but the adventurer appeared to be 100% serious.

He was about to continue ahead with his study when loud rustling pulled him out of his train of thought. 

He glanced over to the source finding no other but his quiet peer Wes, pouting and with eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he looked for the pen that would usually sit on top of the pile of papers for his disposition. Wilson shifted his grip on the pen

“Wes,” he tried to call out but Wes didn’t hear him through the crackling of paper and constant rustling. He called him a second time, louder and more firmly. “Looking for this?” Wilson made the pen waggle between his index and middle finger in an almost mocking display. Wes’s eyes lit up and promptly approached him. 

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to take it away from you,” Wilson spoke serenely. the use of a more scientific method to decipher the mystery had calmed his nerves down.

Wes shook his head and smiled, clearly not bothered in the least. He took the pen out of Wilson’s hand delicately and sat down with his bag to pack up the pen and a few pieces of rolled paper. 

“Where are you going with a pen in hand” Wilson felt compelled to ask.

Wes was caught off guard by the interest but quickly attempted to answer. He took a piece of paper out of the pile and drew with his finger on it, then pointed in the direction to the north. 

“Ah, more landscape sketching?.”

The mime nodded excitedly and kept on checking his backpack

“Be careful out there, it’s starting to get dark earlier”

Wes stuck his hand into his backpack, pulling up a brand new lamp enough to show it off to Wilson, complete with extra fuel. The mime grinned, fully confident. 

“Glad to see you’re so prepared” Wilson glanced over to the backpack and returned his gaze to Wes. “What about food?”

The proud smile of Wes fell flat, obviously realizing the hole in his plan (and his belly). Wilson found himself amused at how despite having a bottomless stomach, Wes always managed to forget to pack enough food.

“There is some in the icebox ” Wilson pointed at said cool container. Wes bowed his head in gratitude and headed right to it. Yes, that food was his, but he didn't mind. It's really easy to find ingredients at this time of year and he honestly prefers to not have dinner than to find Wes passed out in the middle of a field due to his inability to pry his mind away from painting and pay attention to his stomach. 

As he watched the mime marvel at the promised food Wilson realized that he was yet to analyze the possibility of the author of this letter to be Wes, who seemed to fit the sentimental and passionate profile of what was written. Not to mention that his demeanor was always sweet and notably attentive towards Wilson. He shook his head, that was hardly a clue, Wes gave everyone the same respect and unconditional support as far he could tell. He wasn’t just Wil’s close friend, he was everyone’s (or at least anyone who would allow Wes’s behavior). 

Still, he couldn’t help but imagine the situation. He thought it would be rather comical; Would he try to gesture out his feelings like a charade game? What would he do if he accepted the confession even, ‘mime’ him a bouquet?

Then his brain shifted to a more analytical mode, if this was Wes, he would surely take off the makeup, letting his face bare just like he had done with his feelings, a shy smile spreading, his knees slightly shaking, cheeks turning a dark red and then maybe and just maybe, he would talk, for Wilson only. Mellow and soothing like a music box perhaps showing signs of how rarely it is used. The thought made Wilson sigh, a part of him aching to hear such tones.

Wes came back with a little bundle of food and stuffed it up in his backpack. Wilson quickly snapped out of his ‘analysis’ with a violent shake of his head that made some strands of hair fall in front of his eyes. That was way too vivid for his taste. He pushed the thought away into a corner of his mind to avoid stumbling upon it anytime soon. He cleared his throat to try and keep his composure.

With everything packed up, Wes decided it was finally time to head out. He grinned at Wilson and waved a hand. Wilson was in the middle of waving back to him when a lightbulb was turned on inside his head abruptly. Wilson realized how perfect this was to pass up.

“Wes!” He exclaimed, hiding his ominous list from plain sight.

Wes whipped his head back. Wilson signaled him to come closer now determined to avoid catching the attention of an outsider with more yelling. the performer obliged, almost skipping as he went back to Wil and leaned over where he sat, instantly catching up that there must be important information in store for him. 

The mime would be the perfect assistant in this situation, Wilson thought. None of Wes’s attributes pinpoint him as someone perfect for the job of decoding a mystery but that’s not why Wilson called him over. It was his muteness and lack of ill intentions that made him the appropriate help, someone who would never disclose the secret and that would wholeheartedly help him with his conundrum. 

“This could be too personal I think” Wilson unconsciously glanced over the pocket that concealed the love letter, feeling as if its strong presence was burning a hole through the fabric. “But, I need help.”

Wes tilted his head, curious and signaling Wilson to explain further.

“I happen to receive a.... rather affectionate letter this morning and I wish to speak with who wrote it” 

Wes’s face sparkled with enthusiasm. Wilson had expected that, assuming the subject would be entertaining to anyone. He hadn’t even heard the whole story! There was mystery, drama, romance and even comedy that was sometimes supplied while committing silly mistakes. 

“But there is a problem with it” 

Wes gestured in his typically mildly exaggerated way; eyebrows raised high and both hands hovering over his puckered lips.

“I don’t know who it is from,” He stated, eyes fixated on the pile of grass and ropes he had abandoned. “They signed with their initial and as you could’ve guessed, it gives me no hints whatsoever on who it could be.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but the mime’s eyes go wide while his lips stay put in a pucker, slowly comprehending the issue laid out to him. Wilson suppressed a chuckled that had risen from his stomach, amused with the expression.

“So, I would like you to help me figure this out, I might be overlooking something--” 

Wes raised his gloved hand at him, putting a halt to the explanation. His face was deeply apologetic as he began to gesture to the best of his ability for Wilson to understand his words, then he seemed to remember the existence of the pen in his hand. He picked up one of the pieces of paper that he had disorganized and kneeled to write. 

_“I’m very sorry. I just remembered I’ve got something to do for Ms. Wickerbottom before it gets dark”_

The scientist blinked a couple of times, shaken up by how abrupt the change of plan was. Wes noticing the shock wrote another message beside the first.

_“I can help later if you want!”_

Wilson couldn’t mask the defeat in his face, he shook his head, there wasn't a later for this.

“It’s alright Wes no need to worry, I can manage.”

Wes’s eyes betrayed dejection. He wrote a new message, slower and with the demeanor of a kid that has been grounded.

_“I'm sure you will figure it out, I hope it goes well. Sorry again Wil”_

The mime gave him a big ole’ grin to make up for what he surely thought was a very rude behavior on his part. Wilson could insist that there was nothing to worry about or feel obligated to as many times as he wanted, but that wouldn’t convince Wes’s always charitable personality. Soon he was a silhouette getting lost in the distance.

Wilson was alone again. Alone with that small piece of paper that was nothing but pleasant words towards his person and somehow found a way to be stressing. He remembered the list, there were still a few teammates to go over. He wondered if there would be any pens or at the very least charcoal on his backpack

Making his way over his tent to find his supplies Wilson’s mind started to race with possibilities and ideas, his eyes go wide when he stumbles upon an enemy hidden between them. He pulled out the letter and stared at it in horror. 

He might be charged with the duty of rejecting these feelings. 

There was no doubt that the possibility of imminent rejection was strong. His muscles tensed, having to turn down one of his peers would not only be difficult but had the possibility to bring tension, resentment, anger, sadness so many things that were the last thing he wanted to cause or worry about in such difficult situations as it was the constant. Rejection is rarely taken lightly and he could tell an author as bold and passionate as this one would cry if this ended up being a one-sided connection or worst, take no for an answer. But was this so imminent? How big is the probability of not having to do so?

Wilson stopped. From whom would he even accept these feelings? Had he even considered who he wanted this to be? His mind so set on finding a logical answer and not giving his stance on the situation some consideration, perhaps avoiding to think much of any of his peers with such thoughts. The scientist breathed deeply and closed his eyes and let an image emerge before him as he evaluated the situation: 

He was standing on the flower patch looking down on the ground, scared and fidgeting when a new pair of feet appear in his field of vision, he looks up slowly: he sees long legs, a striped pattern flowing in the wind, a big cheery smile that looked to be just for him--

Wilson shoots down the thought so quickly and suddenly that he doesn’t notice right away how his hand was gripping the paper, now wrinkling and tensing harshly under his fingers. He spent a couple of minutes smoothing out the wrinkles. His cheeks felt warm, the image was so clear; he recognized that grin so very well and with so much fondness but it was now fogging up with denial. Looking for excuses, he blamed the vision on how recently he had seen the owner of that smile.

He looked up to the sky, the sun inching closer to its hiding spot behind the horizon, now appearing to be doing so almost menacingly. He muttered a quick “fudge” and looked at his crafts. There were enough ropes for the day he thought, now packing up and setting them aside so he could sneak out. With their team now having so many members it was getting harder to spot someone missing. Today, that was a good thing.

Wilson made his way to the flower garden indicated in the letter. Such a place was made by him and his peers to have a spot ideal to relax on uneventful days and let their worries melt away into the soft grass and to grab a quick snack since a few berry bushes surrounded the garden. 

His eyes scan the area for any sign of his host. nothing. He glanced up towards the sky to check the time. Still afternoon o’clock and with enough light to do activities he would say, so where were they? 

A knot in his stomach formed at the thought of them appearing. He wished he could be done with this, to have enough coldness in his heart to leave this behind him and ignore any new approach but, no amount of discomfort made him come close to that edge. What kind of gentleman leaves a person hanging, no, what kind of scientist goes so far with the analysis and expectation only to back away from the ultimate truth. 

Still, this was agonizing, to say the least. No moment in his life had him enduring such an ordeal for someone who couldn’t bother to write their full name. What was this person thinking? Making Wilson wait like this alone with this hyperactive mind like nothing. Come on already! Show your face-

A small noise from behind the bushes startled him enough to jump into a defensive pose. He quickly turned his gaze towards where it came from, suddenly feeling his ribcage tighten around his lungs. 

Just a bird pecking some of the freshly grown berries. Wilson frowned and hushed the creature away just looking to be mad at something.

He was beginning to feel a bit faint, everything felt like it had been submerged with a dense wave of overthinking and nerves, his limbs and even the air he breathed out felt heavy. In his dazed state, his mind twisted the figure of the admirer into a hug-monster that loomed over Wilson’s touch-starved and anxiety-ridden body. He paced around the area carefully to not step on any flowers trying to escape such moronic thought. 

His eyes drifted to the ground looking for flowers or any strand of grass to focus on and distract himself and it was then that he noticed the small and pale rectangle sitting in the middle of the garden. Eyes went wide open as he hurried over it, still careful to not trample any of the buds. It was sealed up just like the last one, including the heart in the back. He opened it, barely managing to not rip it apart and read:

_"I apologize Wilson._

_In the end, I found myself unable to face you today._

_I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me._

_I might have shied away from this, but my feelings remain._

_Please wait for the day I have the courage"_

_\- W_

He stared at the much shorter message and sighed as his relief washed away the tension in his jaw and shoulders. The ache in his chest remained and grew with the unresolved feelings and a hint of defeat, but it wasn’t terribly painful. 

"Please wait for the day I have the courage" His gaze softened at the line, a small drop of tenderness in his heart spreading slowly. He couldn’t help but smile subtly at the paper, there just was this docile and bashful aura coming off it that melted away the annoyance he had felt just a few minutes ago. 

“You can take all the time you want.” He muttered, hoping the author could hear such a message. It’s not like he had a way to pressure this mysterious W person anyway. 

The letter was folded back to its original form and Wilson gave it a content pat once it was secured inside his pocket alongside the first one. He took his time while walking back, really processing this whole day. On the way there he finally noticed: The faint aroma on the first and second letter was no other but the scent of wild red berries. Interesting. 

What he never noticed though, was the small strands of messy hair peeking out of the bushes and the hidden character was more than relieved that was the case. 

\------ ✿ ------

Wes let out a long and deep sigh, releasing all the anxiety that had built up in his chest and stomach and let himself fall onto the grass. He had held his breath in the hopes that it would make him indetectable. The moment that red bird landed beside him for a snack made his heart skip 2 whole beats. He has always been good at concealing his voice but today it felt as if his life was riding on it.

He had taken off his makeup for the day but his cheeks turning a furious red replaced the painted ones.

“You big idiot,” he thought, referring to no other but himself. 

How had he forgotten about the name thing? It was a rather popular topic for them to talk about the first weeks of getting to know each other and yet it had slipped his mind entirely. 

After Wilson brought up his error, all the confidence, and courage he had built up throughout the last couple of weeks puffed away like smoke in the wind. The last remaining bit of his dignity held him up for enough time to perform and not cast any suspicion on while talking to the scientist.

And despite all of this shame, he smiled and let the fluttering in his stomach make him giggle. Glee slowly filled up his heart like warm honey remembering how Wilson’s troubled face had changed so instantly when he finished reading and his soothing voice as he spoke to the letter. 

"He kept them." he thought while the word 'maybe' floated around in his mind as a bee would hover above one of the flowers surrounding him. He closed his eyes, knowing very well he had to get up and go back to camp before it gets dark, but he just wanted to savor what just happened for a little bit longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my partner who gave me the inspiration to write again, I wrote the loose idea for it to them last year. they alongside other friends helped me have the courage to post it! have a good day


End file.
